


Playing Games

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Desperation, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: Crowley is determined to get Aziraphale's attention...Somehow.





	1. Chapter 1

He was fighting with Aziraphale, although he couldn’t remember why.

He knew[1] that it was about, or vaguely to do with, a periodical Crowley had been reading, though what periodical, he couldn’t say, and what about it had offended the angel, he had no recollection whatsoever. He rarely bothered to remember what their arguments were about. The less he recalled about his position, the easier it was to abandon in favour of an apology, so that he and Aziraphale could get back to talking.

It was difficult, to be humble, and to apologise, when Aziraphale was in a mood with him, but he tried his best. He had to try, or they’d go for decades without speaking, as they’d done before, until they’d each forgotten the argument. Crowley had found it more efficient to simply forget  _his_  side first, and compliment and wheedle and ply with wine and food until Aziraphale forgot his.

Of course, Crowley was a  _demon_. It was hard to be nice, and complimentary, and  _sweet_ , at the best of times, and he’d tell you so! But especially when Aziraphale was being like  _this_.

“Ezra,” Crowley whispered again, employing the forename Aziraphale made use of in his gentleman’s club.

Aziraphale serenely ignored him, his gaze focused on his book, and he idly licked the tip of his finger and turned a page.

Crowley scowled.

Conversation went on around them in the Hyacinth and Vine, the  _private_  gentleman’s club to which Aziraphale had been a member, now, for some ninety-five years. If people noticed that he had grown no older, or that he still wore the same damned wardrobe as when he’d joined, nobody said. Crowley expected, somewhere along the line, that Aziraphale had vaguely and half-heartedly muttered some excuse or explanation, that he was his own cousin or nephew or whatever, that Ezra Fell was a family name… Crowley doubted he’d put all that much effort into it: Crowley rarely did, himself.

The truth was, no one really  _wanted_  the nice gentleman in the soft clothes, who read his books of poetry and was fussy about the carpets and listened to your drunkenly cry about the boy you’d fallen in love with at university, to get older, and to die. No one really  _wanted_  Mr Fell, sweet soul that he was, to leave, or to get sick, or to have a funeral. Sure, it was weird, and sometimes, Crowley could see people’s faces as they looked at old club photos or when Aziraphale mentioned something that had happened too long ago, but they preferred to just… Set the issue aside.

It was nicer to think that he was always there, and always would be, like a guardian angel for the club…

Which was precisely what Aziraphale was.

For now, the club was busy.

It was a warm night, and the Hyacinth and Vine was always popular, never invaded by even a single policeman, not ever. Mr Fell saw to that, and Crowley  _could_  have interfered, but— But that would be too much, even for him. They were upstairs, in the private little  _members only_  members only part of the club, where some of the men played games with one another, embraced, sprawled across one another’s laps, hugged, kissed… They treated the place like they might someone’s private home, and there was a sense of liberty here. It wasn’t usually  _sexual_ , per se. It was merely open in its affection, and men were permitted by democratic impropriety to remove their ties or their jackets, or to roll up their sleeves, so that a handsome friend might caress their wrists.

It reminded Crowley of…

Oh, a hundred times, a hundred thousand times.

It reminded him of the past.

Aziraphale didn’t join in, of course, with people stripping off some of their clothes or playing their drinking games. He just listened to all their chatter, smiled fondly when someone lost. Occasionally, men would kiss his cheeks, or Aziraphale would hug someone, hold their hands. Once, Crowley had come upstairs to find Aziraphale with a very young man, barely older than nineteen, fitfully asleep in his lap his cheeks tearstained, Aziraphale’s hand delicately stroking his trembling shoulder. That had been two years ago, now, in 1907: the boy’s lover of three years had been sentenced to six years’ hard labour.

Most men, though, most men didn’t touch him too much, but Crowley did.

When Crowley and Aziraphale were on good terms, he’d sit with the angel, would doze in his lap or sit on the floor and use his knee as a pillow, or lie across his favourite settee with his feet in Aziraphale’s lap, the angel’s hand resting loosely on his ankles. When they were quarrelling, though, Aziraphale would shove him off with inhuman strength if he tried to wriggle close, and Crowley hated how it looked, when he tried to curl up with Aziraphale and Aziraphale treated him like a cat with mange. He knew what all the men  _assumed_ , that he and the angel were  _involved_ , that Crowley was Aziraphale’s young man, but Crowley didn’t care, and Aziraphale couldn’t care less.

And knowing – or at least, thinking they knew – that Crowley was Aziraphale’s… Well, even without knowing that, they  _liked_  him, at the Hyacinth and Vine. They thought he was handsome[2], and that he was too much of a philosopher for his own good[3], and that he was a tease.

And Crowley  _was_  a tease.

Whether he and Aziraphale were fighting or not, Crowley teased. He flirted and he let men touch him, touched them back; he sprawled on the furniture; he let out soft, sinful noises as he stretched and did his little bits of acrobatic stretching. He was handsome, which was on purpose, as it had been for centuries: he had a lithe body, thick with (admittedly inhuman) muscle, flexible. He had beautiful skin and ethereally attractive bone structure, and he  _felt_ seductive. He exuded a sense of sex.

Aziraphale was warm and paternal in his aspect, let people assume he was either celibate or committed to Crowley, and innocently made double entendres that made the uninitiated choke on their drinks, sure the old man must not know what he was saying. When  _Crowley_  made double entendres, they had no doubts at all, and would flush or fluster, or fidget uncomfortably. Crowley was a demon, after all: it was his job to inspire lust, and envy, and wrath, when he teased and teased and then refused all advances…

They did  _assume_ , after all, that he was after Ezra Fell, and no other. That’s why they thought he teased and played with people, while ignoring them in favour of the angel.

It wasn’t true, of course.

Crowley  _inspired_  lust: that didn’t mean he had to partake. He didn’t usually bother.

“You playing a game?” Crowley asked, turning away from Aziraphale and to the circle of chairs. He spoke rather shortly.

“He ignoring you  _still_ , Anthony?” asked one of the men, a portly man in his early forties, whose name was Robert Hughes. He wore a monocle, which shifted as his brow furrowed, and he patted Crowley’s hip sympathetically when Crowley gave him a miserable look.

“What ever did you say to him?” asked Reginald McGarry, a gentleman a little older than Hughes, patting the seat beside him. Crowley dropped forward, slithering over the arm of the chair and immediately sprawling across McGarry’s lap. He smelled, as he always did, of horses and fresh grass and tweed, no matter how clean his dinner suit was. It was a nice smell, even if it didn’t at all rival Aziraphale’s warm and familiar array of scents, and he buried his face in the man’s muscular, warm thighs, inhaling deeply.

There were other men in the circle of chairs, and a lot of them watched Crowley, their conversation coming to a stop as they looked between him and Henry Battersea, a relatively new addition to the upstairs lot at the Hyacinth and Vine. Then, there was Ian Burnley, a genteel man of thirty-something with thinning hair, who spoke the most to Aziraphale about his books; there was Harry Jones, a thin and papery looking man of sixty, who was always the most eager to grab at Crowley, and the most desperate in attempting to get his attention; there was Geoffrey Evans, who wrote erotic poetry, and would probably be more handsome on canvas than he was in reality.

“Anthony?” McGarry asked. His hand was resting on the muscular barely-curve of Crowley’s arse. Crowley pretended not to notice, and equally, wriggled so that McGarry’s hand would rest on it more completely: he heard McGarry’s soft inhalation.

“The  _game_?” Crowley prompted.

“There’s no game,” Hughes said. “Just Battersea being obnoxious.”

Crowley lifted his head from McGarry’s warm lap, opening one yellow eye[4] to look at Battersea. He was a handsome man, prematurely greying at his temples, and his hair was a soft, blondish auburn that made Crowley think of burning wheat. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and rugged. He boxed, Crowley was informed.

Right now, he had a dark grin on his handsome face, and he was looking right at Crowley.

“You never  _know_ , Robbie,” he said to Hughes, who looked very affronted at the nickname, his monocle shifting as he scowled, “Mr Crowley might want to play.”

“Might do,” Crowley allowed.

“Chicken,” Battersea said, with a smokey furl of implication in his voice.

“ _Boring_  game,” Crowley said. He should know: he had invented it. “I’m a little old to play in traffic.”

“No traffic,” Battersea said. “Bet you ten pounds I could beat you.”

“Ten  _pounds_?” Crowley repeated, sitting up and feeling McGarry’s hand follow him, lingering on his lower back. He looked from Battersea’s smug confidence to the other expressions around the circle of plush chairs, to Hughes’ portly disapproval, to Burnley’s interested attention, to Evans’ salacious curiosity, to Jones, who looked all but ready to salivate. He glanced back, then, to McGarry, whose expression was just distaste, and then—

Aziraphale, in the next circle of chairs, had not looked up. As Crowley watched him, he turned another page.

Crowley turned back to Battersea.

“What is it?” he asked. “The game?”

“Battersea,” McGarry said warningly, but Battersea ignored him, focusing on Crowley.

“Simple,” Battersea said. “We each perform actions upon one another, and the first one to pull back, or to cry out some protest, he is deemed the chicken. He loses.”

“We hurt each other?” Crowley asked, apparently injecting more enthusiasm than he meant to into his voice, because Battersea looked suddenly uncertain, and a little afraid.

“No,” Jones said, in his oily, slightly quavering voice. “You undress one another, you know.” He licked his lips. “It tests your sense of propriety against your pride.”

“Oh,” Crowley said.

“No pain,” Battersea said firmly. “You undress, you touch one another, you test one another.”

“Alright,” Crowley said. “Ten pounds.”

“Anthony,” McGarry said, but Crowley was already leaning forward, shaking Battersea’s hand, and he let Battersea stand and move the coffee table out of the way of the circle of chairs, to give them a bigger space on the rug. “Anthony,” McGarry said again, “this really is—”

“It’s a  _game_ , Reg,” Anthony drawled, giving him a winning smile of white teeth, some of which were just a little bit too sharp. “What’s the harm?”

McGarry’s eyes widened, and then he nodded meaningfully behind him, in Aziraphale’s direction. Crowley scoffed.

He and Battersea knelt on the floor, across from one another, and Battersea looked at him from dark eyes. He was handsome, Crowley supposed. Not like Crowley’s handsome, which was a collection of favourite features that didn’t quite match from across the millennia, and was subtly off, subtly inhuman, in the proportions of the jaw, the chin, the length of his neck… The people that tried to describe his inhumanity always lingered on the eyes, but his eyes were the least of it, really. It wasn’t that he didn’t  _try_  to look human: he did. But there was only so much trying he could do.

Battersea was handsome like a human. He had a hard jaw, a chiselled brow and nose, deepset, brooding eyes that offset the lightness of his hair… And of course, he was muscular, and big.

“You can start,” Crowley said graciously, and Battersea leaned forward, undoing the golden silk of Crowley’s cravat, and Crowley sat patiently, smiling beatifically, as he unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt, the top few buttons, baring the graceful beginning of his throat to the room.

Crowley unbuttoned Battersea’s jacket, pulling it off his shoulders, and then he went for Battersea’s waistcoat buttons with his hands resting on his thighs. “Ah!” Battersea yelped. Crowley popped another button from its eye, using his tongue more than his teeth: Battersea smelled  _good_ , like rich tobacco, and lavender, and bath salts. He smelled like paper and silk, like polished brass and silver. “What are you doing!?”

Crowley leaned back, and he smiled. Battersea’s waistcoat was open: Crowley had undone every button with his teeth and his tongue.

Battersea was breathing heavily, staring at him. “Double or nothing,” he said.

“ _Twenty_  pounds?” Crowley asked, his head tilting to the side, his expression thoughtful. “What do you think, Ezra?”

He heard a page turn. There was no other response.

“Twenty pounds,” Crowley agreed.

Crowley reached to undo his tie, but before he could start on it, with his fingers, this time, Battersea grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into a kiss. He was a good kisser, but Crowley with three millennia’s experience under his belt[5], was better. Battersea moaned when Crowley’s tongue slid against his own, and Crowley laughed at him as he undid his tie, tossing the thing aside and kissing Battersea’s neck as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Battersea put his hands on Crowley’s arse, squeezing, and Crowley ignored him.

Battersea dragged open Crowley’s waistcoat, sliding his hands under Crowley’s shirt to brush his undershirt: Crowley kept unbuttoning.

He shoved Battersea’s waistcoat and shirt from his shoulders in one movement. Battersea shoved back, and then he grabbed for Crowley’s undershirt, hauling it over his shoulders like he was raising a sail, and leaving Crowley shirtless.

They were all looking at him.

Jones was fidgeting, his gaze hungry and full of filthy want; Evans was leaning in his seat to get a better look at Crowley’s back, which rippled with muscles ill-suited to a human body; Burnely had his chin on his hand, his jaw set, his knees pressed together. It was hardly the first time men had admired his body: he had posed for a hundred portraits, a thousand, in his lifetime, often nude or undressed, often…

But there was a frantic energy in the room, charged, and not entirely of Crowley’s making. A ghost of shame burned on the back of his neck, and he looked back to Battersea.

“That’s enough,” Hughes said, a little stiffly.

“No,” Crowley said, unbuttoning Battersea’s undershirt, and revealing a chest thickly furred with gingery hair. He liked chest hair, but trying to grow some was always difficult: his body barely allowed for the hair on his head, and the hair on his eyebrows. Trying to grow it anywhere else was all but impossible, and he usually just ended up with  _spines._  “I’m going to win.”

Battersea was breathing heavily, and he stared at Crowley as Crowley let his fingers play over his chest, dragging through the hair, but then he lunged, clashing their mouths together. Crowley had to concentrate to keep hold of a vaguely human tongue, this time: Battersea’s kiss was brutal and full of silent command, one of his knees shoving between Crowley’s thighs and pressing up against his cock, and Crowley choked out a noise.

Unlike Aziraphale, who usually preferred to keep himself blank unless  _absolutely_  necessary, Crowley preferred to keep himself  _intact_ , as it were: he liked to have all the orifices, all the outer organs, any other man might—

Well, not  _any_  other man. His body was certainly not especially human, and Crowley was certainly guilty of swapping around the particular set-up he had going on, depending on what he was in the mood for. But he liked to have an approximation of  _something_ , anyway, and at the moment, it was an increasingly hard cock not at all unaffected by the grind of Battersea’s thigh against it.

Crowley dragged himself away from Battersea’s mouth to shove him down onto the carpet, shoving his mouth against the front of his trousers this time. It was easy, undoing the fastenings with his tongue and his teeth, and Battersea was choking out noises as Crowley leaned back, his hands resting on Battersea’s thighs.

Battersea stared at him, his dark eyes full of—

Crowley shivered.

It was one thing, to inspire lust, to tease and then move away: it was another, when his cock was hard in his trousers and there was a soft sheen of sweat on his naked chest, more because he felt that he probably  _ought_  be sweaty than because his body was sweating itself. Now, seeing that lust, directed at him…

He resisted the urge to look back to Aziraphale, and when Battersea lunged at him again, Crowley let him: Battersea shoved Crowley onto his belly on the carpet, dragged his trousers and breeches down in one sharp movement – so sharp, in fact, that Crowley was fairly certain he heard cloth rip.

He found he didn’t entirely mind.

Dragging the trousers down about his knees, Battersea shoved Crowley’s thighs open, and when he dipped, shoving Crowley’s buttocks[6] apart, he dragged his tongue from the base of his bollocks all the way up to the pucker there, and Crowley  _keened_. It was a loud noise, louder than he’d intended it to be and barely muffled against his forearm, even though his mouth was shoved against the skin, and his thighs fell further open.

A voice toward the back of his mind, muffled by the devastating heat of his arousal, pointed out that perhaps he ought give Battersea a lecture about hygiene, because although Crowley was a demon who rarely made use of certain of his body’s facilities, he really ought be more careful about where he sticks his tongue. After all, he could hardly be sure that Crowley had washed—

The voice sounded like Aziraphale.

Crowley closed his eyes tightly, and he choked out a gasping noise as Battersea shoved his tongue inside him, dragging over the smooth flesh of Crowley’s inner wall: it wasn’t dexterous or clever, no, was blunt and clumsy, but it was hot and wet and  _good_. When was the last time he had sex?  _Years_  ago, the last vessel he’d worn, fucking another of the teachers at that girls’ school in Sussex, showing her precisely what Sappho had been on about—

He planted his knees into the carpet, grabbed at it as he shoved back against Battersea’s mouth, felt Battersea’s teeth drag softly over the edge of his buttock, and he choked out a noise. His cock was hard and wet, shoved against the rug beneath him, and he could feel Battersea’s fingers digging into his thighs.

“Jones,” Battersea said, his voice low and husky, and Crowley choked out a moan. “Have you any…?”

“You  _can’t_ ,” McGarry said sharply.

“Sure he can,” Crowley said, and he watched the little tin pass from Jones’ hand to Battersea’s. “S’not against the rules, is it?”

Battersea’s finger, slick with petroleum jelly and thick and strong, slipped past the inside of Crowley’s rim, pressing in and hooking at it, dragging just slightly on the muscle and making Crowley moan.

“Good Lord,” Battersea said, and he slipped another finger inside, scissoring them to stretch Crowley wider, “it’s like you’re  _made_  of muscle.”

Crowley moaned, his eyes opening wide, and it was now that he saw Aziraphale.

Crowley was sprawled on the rug, his knees spread as widely as he could shove them, his fingers dragging at the rug beneath him, his chest on the floor: Battersea was kneeling between his thighs, one hand still gripping at his thigh, the other doing  _wonderful_  things as they twisted and rocked inside him.

Aziraphale was standing at the edge of the circle of chairs, beside the empty armchair just in front of Crowley. His feet were together, his book loosely held under one arm, and he looked down at Crowley with one of his eyebrows raised, his expression disapproving.

“Playing a  _game_ , boys?” he asked quietly.

“Chicken,” Battersea said, and he had the grace to sound a little bit ashamed, but his fingers were still shoved tightly inside Crowley’s arse, and Crowley was breathing heavily, raggedly.

“ _Chicken_ ,” Aziraphale repeated mildly, and he slid very, very slowly into the armchair, setting his book aside. All the men were looking at Aziraphale, at his coolly curious expression, distaste visible in the curve of his plump lips, and Crowley was aware of the awkwardness, the tension, thick on the air in the room. “How fun.” His voice rang with polite disgust.

His gaze was only on Crowley, and Crowley heaved in a gasp, opening his mouth to say something, to say—

But Battersea was shoving another finger into him, thick and wet, and Crowley wailed out a noise, feeling the desperate,  _wonderful_  pressure inside him, feeling the electric sparks that burned up his spine and made his skin feel tight and hot, made his stomach a twisting mess of nerves and want.

Aziraphale didn’t look away from him.

He looked down at Crowley, his gaze hard, and Crowley felt frozen by it, felt pinned by the icy stare from usually watery blue eyes, his jaw set. Crowley scrabbled at the carpet, trying to shift up and at least onto his hands and knees, but Battersea shoved him hard between the shoulders so that he came down again, and Crowley whimpered.

“That a sound of protest?” Battersea asked in his ear as he shifted behind him, and Crowley stared up at Aziraphale as he leaned slowly forward, interlinking his fingers and resting them against his lips as he looked down at him, unblinking. Aziraphale rarely blinked, actually, almost never, but most people didn’t notice, didn’t even…

“No,” Crowley breathed out.

Battersea lined himself up and slid forward in one smooth movement, and Crowley cried out, his back arching as Battersea shoved his hips forward, rolling into him and making Crowley heave in a gasp. Battersea’s thrusts came hard and fast, one of his hands pressed hard between Crowley’s shoulder blades to keep him down on the rug, and Crowley was helpless under Aziraphale’s exacting stare.

Battersea’s thrusts were punishing, rough and deep and never quite dragging over his prostate: his cock was  _achingly_  hard where it shoved against the rug beneath him, just a little bit of friction, just a little—

Battersea smacked his arse, and Crowley keened, spreading his legs wider and letting Battersea drag him up from the floor, dragged into his lap. Aziraphale leaned just a little further forward, and the coldness of his gaze somehow made Crowley feel even more excited, sent rippling, desperate heat all over his every inch of skin, the way he was  _watching him—_

“Proud of yourself, are you?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley felt Battersea come in his arse, felt the hot spatter inside him. It was dissatisfying, too fast, and without enough real pressure where he wanted it – his three fingers had been thicker than his cock, anyway.

“Think that means I win,” Battersea said.

Crowley turned his gaze away from Aziraphale, twisted them around and shoved Battersea onto his back, pinning him as he rolled his hips down against his softening cock. He was cheating, now, but he didn’t care, didn’t care as he squeezed Battersea as tightly as he could, sucking marks at his neck and his chest, at the line of his jaw—

“Ah,” Battersea groaned, his voice hoarse, “that’s too much, that’s—  _too much_ —”

“You concede, then?”

“ _Yes—_ ” Battersea said desperately.

Crowley dragged himself off of Battersea, landing on his knees, and he felt Battersea drip down his thigh as he dragged up his breeches, his trousers, scrambled for his shirt. He felt humiliated, now. He’d won, yes, won his money, and Aziraphale was paying attention to him, but he felt like he’d been  _stupid_ , now, and they were all looking at him, looking at him with want, and with  _embarrassment_. They were embarrassed that he’d debased himself, even though half of them had  _wanted_  him to.

They were embarrassed, on his behalf, that he’d done this right in front of who they  _thought_  he was involv—

Aziraphale stopped him, grabbed him by the hair and pulled Crowley toward him with angelic strength. Crowley was on his knees between Aziraphale’s legs, breathing heavily, his shirt clutched loosely in his hands, and Aziraphale drew him a little closer, so that Crowley’s chest touched against the front of Aziraphale’s soft jumper, his belly.

“Did he make you come, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, in a softly deliberate voice that made Crowley have to bite back a noise, feeling like he’d been dipped in hot water, he was so embarrassed. His cock was still hard in his hastily drawn up trousers.

“Let me go, angel,” Crowley muttered, feeling his cheeks burn with a red flush, and Aziraphale clucked his tongue, his other hand coming up to play his thumb over Crowley’s chin.

“Did he?” Aziraphale asked.

“No,” Crowley said. “That wasn’t the point of the game.”

“The point of the game was merely, I presume, to get my attention?”

“He’s only young, Ezra,” McGarry said as Battersea started dragging on his clothes, but Crowley didn’t turn back to look at them. “He doesn’t—”

“He knows better,” Aziraphale said softly, and he pulled Crowley slowly by his hair, closer: his scalp was dragged by it, a soft pain that made Crowley want to squirm, and he came up from his knees, falling against Aziraphale’s chest. “Don’t you, dear boy? I do think you ought to rethink how much you tease everybody, you know, Anthony. You can be so…  _cruel_.”

Crowley’s mouth was dry.

“Az— Ezra, you don’t, you don’t need to, I—”

“No, dear, I really think I do,” Aziraphale said, and he leaned in, so that their mouths were almost touching. “You do make such a  _spectacle_  of yourself at times, my dear… And yet, it seems—” Aziraphale’s hand grabbed up between Crowley’s legs, squeezing him through his trousers, and Crowley choked out a noise, his arms grabbing at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You haven’t quite been satisfied, hm?”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley choked out, but Aziraphale’s hand was grasping at him through his trousers, taking hold of him and playing his palm repeatedly over his cockhead, which was wet beneath the fabric.

“I—”

“I believe I’ve heard enough from you this evening, Mr Battersea,” Aziraphale said sharply, and he slid his hand under the waistband of his trousers, wrapping his hand tightly around Crowley’s cock. Aziraphale’s plump, elegant hands were  _soft_ , and his palm felt wonderful where it slid against Crowley’s cockhead. “Foolish little thing, so desperate for me to pay heed to you… And now everyone knows  _precisely_  how salacious you are.”

“Angel,” Crowley said plaintively, his hips shifting up and into Aziraphale’s hand, and he caught him in a kiss, squeezing him more tightly. Crowley’s eyes were tightly closed, his face buried in Aziraphale’s neck as Aziraphale dragged his hand over his cock, his lips soft against Crowley’s. Aziraphale  _wasn’t_  good at kissing, was clumsy, his tongue wet, his lips too awkward where they moved, but it was  _Aziraphale_ , he was  _kissing_  him, it was—

Aziraphale twisted his hand, and Crowley whimpered into his mouth. He still felt open and eager, and he was grinding himself down against Aziraphale’s thigh, moaning into his mouth, against his tongue as Aziraphale kissed him.

When he came, it was messy, staining his breeches, over Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale tutted against his mouth as he pulled back, burying his face against the angel’s neck. Aziraphale used a little magic to spell the mess away, and Crowley was grateful even as he wound himself closer, feeling Aziraphale’s hand patting against his lower back.

“Now,” Aziraphale murmured against his temple, stroking the back of his hair. “You know better than to try to find satisfaction anywhere else, don’t you?”

“You’re not still angry with me?” Crowley asked breathlessly, and Aziraphale arched an eyebrow at him. He knew what it looked like, for them to be here, like this, together, hadn’t expected Aziraphale to  _touch_  him, he’d just wanted him to look up from his bloody  _book_.

“I believe I’ve quite forgotten what I was angry about,” Aziraphale murmured, squeezing his thigh, and Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck again. He heard Aziraphale say something, to one of the other men, about his book, Crowley thought, just… Just start a conversation about  _literature_ , because that was what he liked to talk about.

One of them replied.

A few familiar names came up, but Crowley wasn’t entirely aware of the conversation as it went on over his head: his eyes were closed, and he was relaxing in his place. Later, they’d have to…  _talk_. Crowley knew that, that later, they’d have to discuss it, that he’d have to ask, because he didn’t want Aziraphale to  _not_  touch him like this again, didn’t—

“When I take you home,” Aziraphale murmured in his ear as Jones and Hughes argued a point about Wilde, “I’m going to put you to bed without supper.” It was delivered in a dark voice, but Crowley could hear the humour in it, and he laughed.

“Is that all?” Crowley asked.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t give you anything else,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice quavering just slightly as he tried to be seductive, and Crowley grinned, pressing his nose against his neck.

“Don’t be stupid,” Crowley murmured. “I’m twenty pounds up, I’m taking you for dinner.”

“Later, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley let himself melt against his chest.

 

[1] That is to say, he was 60-70% sure, which was really the best one could hope for.

[2] Which he was.

[3] Which Crowley couldn’t help but agree with.

[4] Crowley ordinarily wore his dark glasses downstairs, but up here in the private rooms, he set his glasses aside, and everyone chalked it up to a funny medical condition. Humans liked easy explanations for things, if they could be found.

[5] He had started late.

[6] Which were hard and overmuscled, not nearly as fun as fat-soft buttocks most humans had, in Crowley’s opinion. With that said, he had tried to soften them and pad them out a bit, but he always ended up looking silly, because he’d get the placement wrong and end up lopsided or lumpy.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony was asleep.

You could see the way he was lounging in his place, his head on Mr Fell’s shoulder, his nose pressed in toward the older man’s collar. In the evening light of the Hyacinth and Vine, lit by a few tall candles, the lines on his face were exaggerated, creating handsome shadows and highlights on the panels of it, drawing attention to the handsome, sculpted lines of his brow, his jaw, his nose. His thin lips were a dusted, sultry pink; his eyelashes - usually hidden from view - were long and dark and beautiful.

“Christ,” muttered Robert Hughes, and he adjusted his monocle. Beside him, Reginald McGarry cleared his throat.

It wasn’t Anthony’s face.

Everyone knew he had a handsome face.

Everyone knew he had a handsome body.

But in sleep?

It was elevated beyond measure.

Sprawled in Mr Fell’s lap, one arm loosely slung about the rounded, comfortable cushion of Mr Fell’s belly, his body pressed tightly against him, Anthony Crowley was a breathtaking vision of soporific eroticism. His suit was tailored tightly to his body, and one could see the supple lines of his entire body, the rippling muscle plain beneath the tight black cloth. One raised thigh, curled against Mr Fell’s body, was carved with muscle, and the flat curve of Anthony’s arse was almost completely visible under his trousers, or would be, were it not for the possessive settle of Mr Fell’s plump, beautifully manicured fingers upon it.

It was impossible  _not_  to envision him as they’d seen him before, sprawled on the floor with Henry Battersea sculpted against him, his muscled back on display, his body arching, and the  _sounds_  he’d made, those little moans, the gasps, the hisses...

“You think he has him every night?” Harry Jones asked, sipping at his drink. Mr Fell was reading around his makeshift blanket, paging through his book with one hand and resting it on the jutting bone of Anthony’s hip. 

“I don’t think he stops having him,” Geoffrey Evans murmured, and exhaled quietly. “I wouldn’t.”

Anthony shifted in his sleep, arching his back to press his body more solidly against Mr Fell’s body, and the movement served to stick out his arse - pert, pretty, rounded off.

As one, the four men sighed.

\--

“You are insouciant, my dear,” Aziraphale said in an undertone, stroking an idle pattern on Crowley’s lower back.

“Dunno what you mean,” Crowley murmured, and smirked in his “sleep”. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). You can send requests [on Tumblr](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask), too. Requests always open. Check out [Fuck Yeah, Gabriel! too](https://fuckyeahgabrielgoodomens.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Remember that [the Tadfield Advertiser](https://tadfield-advertiser.dreamwidth.org/517.html) and the [Good Omens Prompt Meme](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/9084.html) are both up and running, and people should definitely go leave prompts and fills on both!!


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